Classic Poem

All tongues, " said Job, " of thy perfections speak;
Thou he that renders vigour to the weak;
Thy strength the feeble arm with nerves supplies,
Thou by thy counsel mak'st the foolish wise;
No secret from thy knowledge is conceal'd;
Celestial oracles by thee reveal'd.
To whom art thou so prodigal of breath,
Or by what virtue dost thou raise from death?
God's works, O Bildad, we admire no less,
His prudence in their government confess.
Dead things within the deep were form'd by Him;
And all that in the curled ocean swim,
The silent vaults of death, unknown to light,
And hell itself, lie naked to His sight.
He fashion'd those harmonious orbs that roll
In restless gyres about the arctic pole.
The massy earth, supported by His care,
On nothing hangs in soft and fluent air.
He in thick clouds the pendent water binds,
Not thaw'd with heat, nor torn with struggling winds
Before His radiant throne like curtains spread,
Yet at His beck in show'rs their substance shed.
With constant bounds the raging floods confines,
Till day his throne to endless night resigns.
Heav'n's columns, when His storms and thunder rake
The troubled air, with sudden horror shake.
Lo, at His breath the swelling waves divide,
His awful sceptre calms their vanquish'd pride.
Whose Hand th' adorned firmament display'd,
Those serpentine yet constant motions made;
These but in part His pow'r and wisdom show,
For O, how little do we mortals know!
Although His fame resound through all the world,
Like thunder from aerial vapours hurl'd. "